COUSINS IN LOVE

(SHEREEF’s POV) Hoof... Finally, I’m here, Princeton university. This is where grandpa wants me to go, not just me but all his lineage. Even though I can’t really be placed as part of his direct line as he is actually my maternal grandfather, and like the full cultural African that my family likes to portray, the child is originally part of his father’s family, but the head of the Anifowoshe clan has always shown a deep interest in me and sometimes I try to convince myself that he prefers me more than his own direct grandchildren who actually carry his name. So here I am, having been admitted to Princeton university like every Anifowose I have met, even though I was an oluwanishla, but here I was, keeping to the tradition of the Anifowose and, to be candid and honest, it was not really my wish. But like I mentioned, my grandpa has taken my life into his total control and it was as if my father had forgotten I was carrying his name and not my mother’s father’s name, judging by the way he let her family take full control of the reins in my life. And keeping with the tradition, no one gets to follow you to school for registration, accreditation and all of that, the only help you get is grandpa using his influence to ensure your name gets on the acceptance list. Apart from that, you are left on your own to strive along whatever ladder you plan to climb in the school. I was dropped off at the Dytche parking area, just in front of the King Alfred quarters, the centre of life at Princeton University. I went on to find my way to the accommodation I had been allocated. I dropped in and was glad to see a person the same colour as me already settling in. You can’t blame me, irrespective of how long I have spent in America. I love relating with people of similar origin as I am. You can’t call me racist, only white people can be racist. “Welcome brother…” the calm looking dude ushered me in as he walked up to me ushering and helping me in with my luggage. He had curly dark hair. I always envied brown skin and very thick pink lips. “Thank you…” I responded, walking into the room with quick observing looks here and there. “I am glad I will be living with a brother…” he said with a thick African accent wh8ich I deduced should be east African or there about, but his appearance made me classify him as a North African, one of those black Arabian countries. “Even though I doubt we are from the same part of the continent…” he added as I scoffed out a quiet chuckle, still maintaining my scanning looks around the room as my quite timid nature makes me listen more and shy away from talking quickly, especially in new environments. “I am Abdi Cisse…” he introduced himself, stretching his hand to me. “A Senegalese…?” I chipped in the question as I received his hand. “Yeah…” he affirmed with a smile. “But I grew up in Somalia where my mother is from…” he added more details to the earlier statement. I nodded my head in astonishment at his brief family history. “So what about you?” he asked me, releasing my hand from the handshake. “Oh, I am Shereef Olowanishola...” I stated. I was about to add my origin to the information, but he snapped at cut me off. “You are a Nigerian…” he said with a big grin on his face. I nodded in affirmation with a proud smile on my face. “Infact, a Yoruba…” he added with so much confidence and admiration. “Wow, I’m flattered by you’re …” I smiled and had a tilted nod of my head trying to find the right word to describe what I was trying to say. “… Your Sherlock Holmes prowess.” I finally added. “Come on, don’t be ridiculous, your surname gave you away terribly, and anyone who has an interest in African history, especially Nigerian history, will definitely know what I just said.” He said to me while we were still standing. “Really…?” I rhetorically asked with a smile which immediately turned to a winch as the weight of my backpack was beginning to make me uncomfortable. “Oh, that’s your spot…” he pointed at the bed just by the corner. It seemed he read my expression. “And that over there is for an Indian guy who came in yesterday but didn’t spend the night. In fact, he didn’t even unpack…” he pointed at the bed just on the right side of the bed he pointed at initially. The bed had those unpacked luggage I had questioning thoughts about since I came into the room. “And this here is mine” he pointed at the very first bed at the entrance of the five-meter square room I’ll be sharing with three other strangers. I was glad about where my bed was situated but was surprised about why it was free, as it was the best bed in the room. “But can I ask a question, because I am kinda confused and surprised all together at a time…” I asked, as I was still trying to be formal and courteous. He nodded instantly, giving me the go ahead to ask my question. “How do you know so much about me just from my name?” I asked him, chuckling in between words. “Come on man, anyone interested in the history of Africa must study the Nigerian history…” he responded with so much enthusiasm. “The giant of Africa,” he added as he raised his arms, flexing his muscles. “Giants of Africa indeed…” I scoffed as I settled myself on the bed, resting my shoulders and also trying to measure the softness. I wanted to compare the comfort it will give me compared to what I use at home. “Come on, you guys would truly be it if some certain infrastructures are put in place and they are perfectly working adequately…” he added as he finally settles down on the bed he pointed as his. “Yeah, I guess so…” I shrouded his comment off. I had given up on that country a long time ago after my third visit, especially after seeing how passionate the few friends I was able to make there were willing and striving to relocate from the country. “And you, the Yoruba nation of that country, are really very popular, your pre-colonial civilization, especially in conjunction with the old Benin empire and also your high rate of intellectual involvement in the decision making of the political system of the country…” at this point, I was already in awe of surprised as to how much he knows about the Nigerian history, and I could already tell he is a person that takes up any given opportunity to display his intellectual prowess. “… and also…” he was about to continue, but I wasn’t going to let him. No, not this time, I was not in the mood for the history of my people. “How much do you know about Nigeria, and moreover what’s your major, you must be an historian or some sought of political scientist or something…” I quickly cut in not letting him continue with his analysis which started after hearing my name. “Well, I major in human resources management and …”I couldn’t get a grasp of anything he had got to say after that, at that point, all I wanted was a rest from the hour and thirty minute journey from Los Angeles. And hearing a brief on cultural exploration from this brother with a thick east or more like North African accent. Unlike other students, I never got this anxiety about my first day in college. For me, I had no high dreams, hopes or expectations, it was just another phase of life I was going to pass through. So, therefore, I was not in a rush to be outside exploring the campus length and breadth like freshers are fond of doing, rather I was already drifting into a sleep blocking out whatever Abdi got to say. “Hey Amar, where have you been since last night…?” I heard Abdi calling out after someone opened and came into the room noisily jacking out of slumber. I was falling back into full reality. “O man, college is crazy…” he blurted out with an accent that screamed out Indian. I opened my eyes reluctantly as I rose up to see the person whom I supposed was my third roommate. “Yes I was expecting that because I have visited college quite a number of times back in Bangladesh…” he was still talking when I finally got to see his very dark tanned skin, and well permed black curly hair. “But here, it is on a whole different dimension…” I screamed out emphatically. He was so enthusiastic about whatever had happened to him, or with him the night before, and could not wait to spill it out to any willing ears. “… It’s totally different, the booze, the girls, the booooobssss…” he lowered down his voice and went silent as he finally seemed to have realised my presence. “Oh that’s our third fang…” Abdi quickly mentioned realising why he had stopped his story abruptly. “His name is Shereef Oluwaaneesholaa…” he added, making me wonder and think, ‘ Bro, I can introduce myself, you needed not to mispronounce my name in the process. “What kind of name is that…?” the brown Asian asked, squeezing his face with a bit of disgust and confusion, and I immediately felt in my gut that I didn’t like this guy. “I am Nigerian…” I found myself in an unusual position of exhibiting pride and defence of my origin. I stood up reluctantly and stretched my hand to him and briskly pushed towards me as he raised his hand to receive mine. “A Yoruba Nigerian…” Abdi quickly added. I threw him a look that asked, ‘how’s that information important?’ but he was too over his head about my line to see what I had just gestured to him. “I am Amman…” he declared and in a flash he turned back towards Abdi to continue narrating his first party in the college ordeal. I won’t lie, I was a little bit insulted, no one has ever cared less about me. He just shook my hand and the next second, I acted like I was not even there, and I just went on to sit on the bed, as I stared at him as if I was disgustingly and surprisingly interested in what he had got to say. “Man, just after the orientation programme, I met this girl. She’s also an Indian, and she invited me to this party and it was so over the moon it was more like the party in this movie…” he paused, trying to remember something to describe what he was explaining. “You know this movie where the party went wild and out of control…” he kept on snapping his fingers and pointing at Abdi who was just staring with his frontal teeth poking out of his mouth, the “it was a high school party but they sent the invite on a radio station and the place got flooded by many unexpected guests…” I was beginning to get irritated by the continued snap of his fingers and just wished he could go ahead and continue the story if he couldn’t remember the name of the movie. “Project X”, I finally said, just wanting him to go ahead with the tale. “Yeah, exactly, project X” he affirmed. “But this time, there was no overcrowding of guests and it was under control, but it was that wild man…” at this point I lost interest in whatever he had got to say. I seemed to realise he had nothing new to say. I must have experienced it. I remember back in high school, I attended an after-prom party and a girl ended up being r***d by a series of guys and subsequently comatose. That led to me getting arrested and taken in for questioning. Unfortunately, it happened at a time when grandpa ANIFOWOSHE was around. He flared up and was very mad, not just at me but especially my parents. Although I’m not bearing his name, there are significant reasons why I have to believe that he has special interest in me and really wished I was bearing his name. I see the way he looks at me, he sees me as his heir of my generation. But nope, I belong to another family, I belong to the Oluwanishola’s. *****